Come Away With Me
by Arwen Jade Kenobi
Summary: A potential reason as to why Holmes and Watson went to Norway at the end of "The Adventure of Black Peter."  Originally written for June Holmestice over at LJ.


"Have you any plans for later this month, Watson?"

I set my yellowback down on edge of the settee and stare at my friend, whose expression of inquiry does not vanish in spite of what must be a comical expression on my face. To my mild vexation the expression of confusion still remains behind his eyes in spite of it. My friend has not crossed the threshold of our rooms in several days, at least not that I am conscious of and I have not been outside in days due to the revolting heat. Sleep has also come very late, if at all, for the same reason. The poor man cannot understand why I should be surprised to see him and, admittedly, relieved that he is actually still walking amongst the living. Despite it all I still feel a bit sorry for him.

"Where have you been?" I ask instead.

The confusion vanishes. "Ah," he nods and then asks me his question again. I tell him that I'll give him an answer as soon as he answers mine. "Nearly everywhere," he replies. "I believe we will have a case from Hopkins soon. I need to have all the particulars sorted before he calls on us - I trust the boy knows how to handle himself with my methods. It is wonderful to have a promising disciple, my dear Watson."

I do not receive the opportunity to roll my eyes and return to my novel before, much to my surprise, Holmes immediately begins tutting and sets down a valise of some sort that I had failed to notice before. "I do not mean to malign you, my dear friend. It is a novel opportunity to have a receptive mind and keen ear within Scotland Yard and – "

"Yes, yes, I understand," I quickly divert him as he moves to rummage through the stack of wood and papers he calls a desk. I've heard quite enough about Stanley bloody Hopkins to last me into the next decade. "Now as to my plans for this later this month you know full well that I have none an-"

"Excellent!" Holmes exclaims. "We shall be going to Norway."

I know at some point before 1891 I had learned to not be surprised at or to question most of Holmes's declarations as to where our persons would be travelling. It seems that despite him having been alive again for over a year that I have a bit of a learning curve yet. "Why Norway?" I ask stupidly.

"Why not Norway?" is all Holmes says before he smiles triumphantly. "Don't expect me for dinner," he advises with an affectionate squeeze of my shoulder, after which he grabs the valise and disappears down the steps and out into the street. I can hear him humming to himself through the open window from up here.

Several reasons for this behaviour present themselves to my mind's eye. Some I like better than others but there is nothing to do until Holmes reveals all in his own good time. Instead I write off a quick telegram Doctor Grant asking if he could take over my practice for some indeterminate point this month, and that I would get back to him with particulars as they became available to me, and returned to my yellowback.

The next time I see Holmes he is carrying a harpoon of some sort and claims to have spent the better part of a hot London summer day beating a pig carcase. I am far from surprised.

The murder of 'Black' Peter Carey is turning into a tale that I will want to see published. Will want to see published as soon as Holmes allows me to do so again, that is. I've been told, politely, to keep my pen to myself until he says otherwise. I cannot fathom why. I had thought that he wished to keep his being alive a secret as much as he could from anyone abroad but given the amount of casework he has received since his return I cannot see that as having been the reason. That does not stop him from crediting, or blaming depending on the potential client, me for his numerous seekers. My typical response to this is to remind him that the last case of his that I wrote up involved a fatal fall into a waterfall and a few rather choice words I never would have used to describe him had I known what had really been going on.

I sometimes also add that I would be willing to refute them if he gave me the word. That tends to silence him. Sherlock Holmes has a remarkable streak of narcissism. Perhaps he fears the day that I oust him as a deceiving cad. It is going to happen eventually and he knows it – perhaps he wants it on his terms. I'm not sure I am going to allow him that.

"Watson!" My thoughts are interrupted by an insistent tug on my arm. I know that this has nothing to do with asking about my insights involving the case, I know as well as he does that he has essentially already solved the thing.

"Yes, Holmes," I reply somewhat wearily. We have a late night ahead of us and it is only beginning to darken.

"Are you still coming with me?"

"I thought that would be obvious."

"Not tonight, you imbecile, I mean to Norway!"

"Well I won't be if you continue to address me in such amiable terms."

Holmes stops walking suddenly, so suddenly that I almost trip over his walking stick which is lying limply across my path. I am about to ask him what the matter is when I catch his eyes briefly. He is actually taking my jesting remark to heart. He tries to look away but I keep looking at him. "You know full well I was not serious," I tell him. "I'll come with you. 'When you like and where you like,' remember?" _What's wrong_ is what should follow that question but I decide against it.

Holmes nods and finally turns back to me. "I wonder sometimes, Watson, why it is that you continue to abide my presence."

I am about to remind him in jest that I need him to help pay for my housing but decide against it. "Because you are my friend," I tell him. "You are my dearest friend and I enjoy your company and our work together. "

"Even when I am unreasonable and cruel to you?"

Ah. Now I know what we are talking about. "I have forgiven you for that. Twice I think. I promise not to break your nose again unless you do such an idiotic thing to me again."

Holmes nods. "As you would have every right to. Again." He rubs his nose and I have to smile a bit at that. "But you did not answer my question."

I sigh. Loudly and heavily. "Even then," I say. Best to keep things simple. I am quite sure he knows that the only way that I'd leave him after a second fake death would be from the heart attack that what ensue from either the grief or the rage. If I were to survive I would certainly assault him again but I do not think I would leave. I have, essentially, been his since Stamford introduced and I do not see that arrangement changing unless one of us dies in actual fact. I like to think that it will be my death if only because it is fitting and fair that way and that I am probably the most likely to go first. I am older after all.

Holmes is looking me in that way that alerts me that he knows everything that I'm thinking. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it tightly for a moment before he resumes his pace. He slows enough so that I can match him and we walk together until it is time to meet the abominable Hopkins.

When Hopkins leaves our rooms I cannot help but grin. I am pleased that Hopkins has quitted my presence but I am also quite pleased that his attempts to use Holmes' methods failed to impress the man himself. Holmes does not seem as disappointed as I would have thought, but the man must be far too accustomed to potential protégés falling short of his expectations. Before I can take a moment to wonder how many have disappointed him, including myself, I remember something much more pressing.

Holmes had told Hopkins that we could be contacted in Norway. The securities still at issue, by all rights, belonged to a man in Norway. Was this the reason for Holmes' insistence that I accompany him to Norway. The question is almost out of my mouth, Holmes is enjoying a celebratory smoke and I expect an invitation to dinner at any moment, before I remember that all this talk of Norway began before we knew about Norway's roll in the case. Or maybe...

"Coincidence, my good fellow," Holmes informs me merrily. "Norway was a coincidence, a happy one but a coincidence none the less." He shifts position in his chair and picks up a stack of telegrams that I'd failed to notice before. "If you want to decipher the reason for the trip I would suggest you go through your memory and your notes – check your dates, Watson."

I pick up a new yellowback and, as I pretend to read it, I run through any potential date of significance in the month of July. When that comes up short I think of the summer in general. Aside from my own birthday, which isn't until next month and I'm quite certain this has nothing to do with, I can think of nothing outstanding. The question follows me to the concert, most of which I do not hear as I turn over various dates and important cases in my mind. When we're sitting at Simpson's and Holmes is expounding on the wonder of Italian violinists it hits me.

The month of July has no special significance to me. It also has no real significance to Holmes. It is neither of our birthdays, nor our friends, and the month of July is rather devoid of any particular cases worthy of particular remembrance. The month of April does, specifically April the sixth of last year.

Holmes stops his lecture and looks at me with a mixture of pride and sheepishness. "I knew you would find your way there eventually," he says quietly. "Even though I do admit I was unfair by telling you to check your dates, this is a bit late but – "

"You've been busy, I know," I tell him, stunned. The pieces slowly start falling into place. Holmes mentioned that he had been using the guise of a Norwegian explorer called Sigerson during his travels. The travels themselves he had not spoken much of, aside in some of the vaguest terms I have ever heard outside of some theoretical medical texts. Why I have been unwilling to push, unwilling to demand, the truth out of him on this one point I do not know. I remember shouting it at him when he first returned and I'm sure I must have demanded it then...

"We promised no more secrets," Holmes speaks up again. "This is the last thing that I've kept from you. I did nothing unsavoury or anything you would be ashamed of. "He pauses and shakes his head, as if he were alone or looking at a particularly perplexing piece of evidence. "I cannot tell you why I have not spoken of it before but, as you know, I have always been better a showing rather than telling."

Norway is only a starting point, I realise. The last time we attempted a trip across the continent together it was interrupted by his death. We are going to be gone far longer than we both anticipate, and I think the both of us are realising that at the same time.

"Well," I tell him. "I already asked Doctor Grant if he would be willing to cover my patients for the end of the month. I can very likely ask him for more time considering I covered his practice for nearly four months last summer."

Holmes' perks up at that. "Four months?" he asks.

"Quite possibly," I smile back at him. I take a quick moment to reach across the table and quickly press my hand over is. "When you like and where you like," I remind him.

I do not think I have seen Holmes happier in recent months. He enthusiastically finishes his meal as he blathers on about Oslo and Montpellier and St. Petersburg and all these wonderful sights that he wishes to show me. I know that some parts of this journey are going to be painful, to both of us. I know that his three years were not spent in luxury and I know the sights may upset me but I assure him that nothing would please me more. It is the truth and I think a part of him is legitimately surprised at that.

Moments where I can surprise Holmes are few and far between, thus I have learned to enjoy them when they come. As he continues to beam at me in a newer more earnest way as we walk back to Baker Street when he believes I am not looking, or perhaps he wishes me to think that, I wonder if the next time I surprise him may be sooner than we both expect.


End file.
